


To Russia, For Love

by ThirdGenerationRockette



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M, S3, superhero Mac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 09:56:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13738419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirdGenerationRockette/pseuds/ThirdGenerationRockette
Summary: There were so many things she hadn’t planned on. Her husband going to jail, for one...





	To Russia, For Love

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this before the Russia episode aired, when I was fully convinced that Sorkin would capitalise on Emily Mortimer being fluent in Russian and would send Mackenzie to Russia. His loss.

It’s no accident that the bedroom is so far the only room in the apartment that’s fully habitable, it was Mackenzie’s only insistence when they started working on the place. She told Will she was happy to sit on buckets eating takeout for as long as the renovation took, but she wanted them to be able to go to bed properly every night. She needed to be able to go into a room that feels like _their_ bedroom, where they can close the door and forget everything else for a few hours, where they can curl up and just be Will and Mac without the rest of the world demanding more of them. So, despite the lengthy debate about the tiles for the bathroom, the dining room chairs, and the fireplace for the living room, they sat down and agreed a scheme for the bedroom within minutes.

She hadn’t expected to find herself mere months later sitting on the living room floor alone night after night because facing the bedroom without him is just too hard. There were so many things she hadn’t planned on. Her husband going to jail, for one. Cancelling their planned wedding to get married in a hastily arranged City Hall ceremony is another. Her mother’s sharp, disappointed tone is one Mackenzie won’t forget in a hurry, nor the apology she received from her almost immediately afterwards (she suspects her father was mostly responsible for that) that left her crying for half an hour after hanging up the phone. Yelling at Will had been her knee jerk reaction, one she had known was unreasonable even as she was doing it, but still couldn’t quite stop herself.

Stomping into the bedroom throwing a “don’t even think about fucking following me” angrily at him, she had calmed down and crept back out twenty minutes later to find him sanding down one of the window sills, a look of complete concentration on his face until she interrupted him with a hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry.” She had murmured, an embarrassed smile of apology on her face. “It’s not your fault, and I know it doesn’t matter, the big wedding and all that, not really. That’s not what I’m angry about.”

“It’s alright.” He had put down the sander and turned to her. “It’s okay to be pissed, Mac, and fuck, if you need to yell at me, then fine. Just don’t make me sleep out here tonight on that fucking dust sheet.”

She had laughed at that and thrown her arms around his neck, clinging onto him, trying to force herself to stop shaking, pondering briefly if they would have even half a chance if they made a run for it. They could live a life undercover, on a beach somewhere, or hidden in an anonymous city far from everything they know and everyone who knows them. For a moment, she almost believed it until she managed to shake the madness from her brain, reminding herself that running away may be what she used to do, but it isn’t anymore.

“I’m not going to make you sleep out here.” She had pulled back and looked into his eyes. “I just, I-“

“I know.” He had stopped her, kissing her quickly and squeezing her hand.

“I don’t think I need to tell you how proud it makes me, that you’re doing this to keep Neal out of trouble, and that I know you’d do it in a heartbeat for the rest of them too, but from a selfish point of view.” She had told him, because she was, she _is_ proud of him. “I just can’t bear the thought of you going to jail.”

“Ten days, Mac.” He had said. “That’s what Molly said, right? Ten days?”

"That's what she said for contempt.” She had sighed, closing her eyes only to open them again almost instant when her mind was filled with images of him alone in a cell. “But that was before you asked Neal to tell you the source and he did. Even before this turned into a probable conspiracy charge, I was thinking six months would be bad, now it could be years.”

“Worst case scenario, it might not come to that.” He had insisted, giving her a smile before taking her hand and leading her towards the bedroom. “William Farr, 1972, 46 days in jail. Judith Miller, 2005, 85 days. I’m sure there are others, I-“

“Jesus, Billy, hearing the names of journalists who ended up in jail really isn’t helping.” She had said, feeling slightly sick at the thought of Will’s name joining the list.

He had tried to talk but she had carried on, feeling her frown becoming more pronounced, her hands clasping even more tightly together, reminding her of how she felt when she first came back four years ago; on edge, slightly manic and, as she only told Will much later, medicated to the fucking hilt.

"And those sentences were for contempt, not conspiracy." She had shaken her head over and over. "Conspiracy is a very different beast. If they find you guilty, you could be in prison for years-"

"Mac." He had prised her hands apart and tried to joke about no decent judge throwing the affable Will McAvoy in jail for more than the bare minimum. He had seen the look on her face and stopped, instead insisting, “It won’t be years, honey. It _won’t_.”

*

In the end the chips could end up falling anywhere between optimistic and worst case, and Rebecca has taken great pains to make it clear that he is absolutely looking at a conspiracy charge unless they find some way to cut a deal with the FBI. So this is where she now finds herself, sitting on the floor while he sits in a cell, wondering how he is. Is he cold? Is he eating (more than she is, she hopes)? Is he managing to get any sleep (because she sure as hell isn’t)?

Her phone startles her out of her thoughts for a second and she grabs for it, as she does every time, hoping it will be Rebecca calling to announce she has worked some kind of magic and that he’s on his way home. She's been disappointed every time so far, and this time is no different. It’s Sloan, it’s often Sloan. If it isn’t Sloan then it’s Jim, or Charlie, Maggie, sometimes even Don, often calling on some pretence but she knows they’re calling to check on her and she mostly doesn’t have the energy to pretend, so she ignores them.

She pretends all day at work and it's exhausting. She's stepped up a gear, she’s more efficient than ever, she’s sharp, she’s vetting everything twice, three times, and she’s taking absolutely no shit from anyone. Arriving early and leaving late means she has less time to spend alone at home, giving her thoughts fewer opportunities to spin off in directions she can’t control; more than once she’s had to reach for the Xanax, had to sit on the floor of the bathroom just to be able to _breathe_. When things are difficult, work has always been her bolthole, and it’s becoming so again. When someone pitches an idea, she thinks on it a little longer than before because she’s painfully aware of trying to do both she wants and what Will would want, and the two things are not always the same.

Also, she feels like they’ve fucked up here, _again_ , on a different scale to Genoa, but a fuck up nonetheless, and she can’t help thinking about how they keep trying to do right only to have it blow up in their faces. She's going to make this one right though, she has no choice. Everything is riding on it this time, and she refuses to think about the possibility of Will spending the first years of their marriage in jail.

All day, every day, she holds it together, she pulls together a show she hopes Will would be proud of, and she feels a sinking deep in the pit of her stomach when the broadcast approaches and she's putting someone other than him on the air. She feels Neal watching her almost constantly when she's in the bullpen and she knows they need to talk properly, but for now she smiles and insists she's fine because she can't handle his guilt on top of everything else.

Proud of herself for holding it together when Will was subpoenaed in a room full of people and even prouder for getting through the wedding ceremony knowing what was about to happen, she feels it must be okay for her to fall apart just a little in the lonely hours of the night, alone in their new home. She even kept it together immediately after they were married and he was told he had to let go of her and be handcuffed, the moment when the reality of the situation hit both of them simultaneously. She remembers kissing him, over and over, trying to hold him closer than was possible, and she was doing okay until Charlie put an arm around her as they led Will away. Charlie's gentle support has always been her undoing.

Her worst moments usually come at around four in the morning when she’s lying awake, painfully aware of the silence and completely unable to shut down her spiralling mind, until she inevitably stops trying, gets out of bed to make tea and watches the sun come up. When Will comes home, she vows to drag him from sleep one morning to watch the sunrise with her, partly because it’s perfect from this apartment, but mostly because she doesn’t want it to forever be something that reminds her of being so damn sad.

(She can almost _hear_ him, “The fuck, Mac, it’s the middle of the night!” but she knows she can persuade him.)

Her phone once again drags her from her thoughts, and she hits the voicemail button, unsurprised to find a message from Sloan, babbling for just long enough that even though she never actually says the words 'I’m worried about you, Kenzie', the sentiment comes through loud and clear. Mackenzie sends her a text, saying simply that she’s fine, and she’ll see her tomorrow, before she sighs and leans her head back against the wall, looking over at the freshly painted window sills. Three nights ago, she finished the sanding. Yesterday at 5 am, she started painting the sills, and last night just before midnight, she finished them. She has the strange idea rooted in her head that she wants him to know she’s been carrying on with the renovations, that making this apartment their home means something to her, means _everything_ to her.

Running to work has become a regular thing too, three, sometimes four times a week. She's taken to thinking if she's awake at dawn anyway she may as well try and run off some of her anxiety. Some days it works, some days not, but either way her legs have never looked better so it's not a complete loss. It's not a development Will is going to complain about either; he's never made any secret of his regard for her legs, and she's fine with that. She briefly considers throwing on her gym clothes and going out now until she remembers it's almost midnight and realises what a stupid idea that would be. As adrift as she's feeling right now, the possibility of being mugged, murdered, or god knows what else doesn't hold any allure, so she stands up and stretches instead, looking out of the window before she decides on tea.

She's just finished making it when a knock on the door makes her jump and she curses as the milk she's pouring sloshes over the side of the mug. For a moment she does nothing because she can't quite process that someone is on the other side of the door, demanding she open it. Having shut out the world every night for the past four weeks, she feels unsettled, strangely anxious, and she wrestles momentarily with the idea of simply not opening it. When she hears Sloan's voice calling her name, she realises she has no choice.

"Kenzie, I know you're there." Sloan knocks again, not quite as loudly but enough that Mackenzie really needs to let her in before the neighbours hate them forever.

Leaving the puddle of milk, she crosses the room and opens the door, peering reluctantly out at Sloan's relieved smile, before stepping back and letting her in.

"Sloan, it's...nearly midnight." Mackenzie walks back towards the kitchen, assuming Sloan will follow.

"Yes it is, and here you are, wide awake, yet apparently totally unable to answer your phone." Sloan sighs. "Meaning people have to head over here to make sure you're alright. I hope you realise I almost committed a felony downstairs to have your doormen let me up here."

"Do I even want to know what- no, I don't." Mackenzie pauses. "I'm fine, Sloan, I texted you as much. You really didn't need to come over. It's late, you know, you should just...I'll see you tomorrow."

"Bull _shit_ , Kenzie." Sloan's voice is firm and Mackenzie raises an eyebrow. "If you were fine, you'd be answering your phone. If you were fine, you'd be having drinks with the guys sometimes. If you were fine, you wouldn't be showing up at work before anyone else, and leaving after everyone else has long gone. You're not fucking fine, and I'm insulted you'd think I'd believe you are."

Sloan stops and there's a beat of heavy silence before Mackenzie squares her shoulders and gestures to her mug, picking up the milk again and hoping Sloan doesn't notice the slight shake in her hands.

"Do you want tea?" she asks, quietly.

"No, I don't want tea," Sloan says, exasperated. "I'm happy to wait for you to finish making yours and then I'm going to...I was going to say sit but you seem to have no furniture, so I'm going to stand here until you talk to me. Seriously, what do you sit on?"

"Buckets when we're watching TV or eating, and when the buckets start to lose their appeal, we go to bed. We _do_ have a bed," Mackenzie answers, shrugging.

"Of course you do." Sloan smirks briefly before her expression again turns serious. "This is what I should have done days ago, weeks ago, just shown up on your fucking doorstep so you couldn't avoid me."

"I haven't been avoiding you, Sloan," Mackenzie says, knowing as she says it that it isn't true.

"You've been avoiding everyone, Kenzie." Sloan's tone softens and she steps closer, taking the milk gently out of Mackenzie's hand and putting it back in the fridge. "Don't worry, I'm not taking it personally."

"I wasn't worried, but good, you shouldn't." Picking up the mug, Mackenzie runs a cloth quickly over the spillage and leans back against the counter, averting her eyes from Sloan's worried gaze. "It's not you. It's not anyone, I just don't want to be...I can't-"

"Kenzie," Sloan stops her. "You don't think we've all noticed you've become superwoman at work, but in a slightly terrifying robot-like way? You zone out and your work is perfect, but it's like nobody else is there. You show up, you're a fucking powerhouse, you do the show like some pre-programmed super human and then that's it, you're done. Mackenzie McHale, over and out."

"Firstly, I've always been superwoman at work, I'll have you know." Mackenzie rolls her eyes at Sloan, pausing before she goes on. "Right now, the only way I can do things is to just...switch off. Not _off_ , but into a place where I just do my job and try to do it really well, and that's all I think about until I'm at home, because if that slips for a second at work, I don't know how I'd...I can't allow myself to crack, not there, not-"

"Jesus, Kenz." Sloan cuts her off. "Do you think for a minute that anyone's opinion of you would change if you weren't holding everything together every minute of every damn day? Do you?"

"No, I don't, it's not that, it's..." She pauses and puts her mug down on the counter, pushing her hair behind her ear and walking over to the window, suddenly unable to cope with Sloan's stare. "I feel like an idiot, because he's only been gone for four weeks, but shit, he could end up gone for twenty years. I might end up with my husband in jail until I'm in my fifties. I just hate him not being here...I can't fucking sleep, I'm completely unsettled, and I feel constantly on the edge of falling apart. I don't even let myself cry here so there's no way I can let it happen at work because if I lose my grip now, I won't know how to get it back. You're a smart woman, Sloan, surely that makes sense to you?"

"Why the fuck would that make you feel like an idiot?" Sloan walks around her so she has no choice but to meet her eyes. "Kenzie, it doesn't matter if it's twenty days or twenty years, your husband is in prison. It's okay for this to be hard for you, for you not to be breezing through it acting like he's away at a damn conference or something. Give yourself a break, for God's sake."

Mackenzie nods and opens her mouth but nothing comes out, and she has no real idea what she wanted to say in response, but before she knows what's happening she's crying, really crying, for what feels like the first time in forever. The night Will went to jail, she came home with such a stubborn image in her mind of him being handcuffed and telling her he loved her as he was taken away, that she cried for two hours, wrapped in one of his sweatshirts, her face buried in his pillow. The next morning she went to work, mask firmly in place, and she hasn't shed a single tear since.

Suddenly vaguely aware of feeling terrible for piling all this onto Sloan and for allowing herself to crumble like this, she's about to square her shoulders and tell Sloan she's fine when she finds herself being pulled into a hug so tight she can barely move. Realising now just how much she was holding inside, she's not surprised she feels like a dam just burst, and after a few minutes she's no longer embarrassed at sobbing on her friend's shoulder, she's just relieved that she can.

*

She visits on a Friday, every Friday without fail, and he's pissed at himself for feeling relieved, because he knows damn well the week will never come when she doesn't show up, yet still when he sees her walk towards him he sighs and finds himself giving silent thanks that she's here. She strolls in with such confidence that it makes him smile in spite of his surroundings. He's always loved how she can just walk into any environment and not have it faze her in the slightest, be it a fancy restaurant, a crappy bar...or apparently a medium security men's prison. When she arrives, he sits with his fists clenched below the table because, as ever, he can sense the other guys' eyes all over her and it takes everything he has not to rise to it.

"I don't care, Billy." She had said the first time she had realised the fury it was invoking. "And neither should you. I can wear jeans next week though if it's bothering you. Not that I should have to, but I will if it's going to stop the steam coming out of your ears."

"I do not have steam coming out of my ears." He had protested. "I just don't fucking like the way they look at you, like you're...I don't know, like-"

"Like I'm a beautiful goddess who sadly isn't here to visit any of them?" She had smiled and uncurled his knotted fist, holding his hand until one of the guards had noticed and issued the regular warning about prolonged physical contact being prohibited. She had let go but had stretched out her foot and settled it against his calf instead, needing to maintain the contact as much as he did. "Could we maybe stop wasting time talking about your pervy roommates?"

He knew she was right, she shouldn't have to change her behaviour when she isn't doing a damn thing wrong, and he knows it wouldn't matter anyway. She is beautiful, it's as simple as that, and they'd be looking at her whatever she was wearing, so fuck them. If she can stride in here, eyes on him from the second she arrives and oblivious to anyone else, then he can get the fuck over himself and deal with it

Four weeks. It's been four weeks that have felt like a lifetime, four weeks since he married the only woman he's ever wanted to be a husband to, only to be dragged away almost immediately. He hates that it came to this, but he believes without question that he did the right thing, and he knows she does too. There are moments when he wonders if he'd have done things differently with the threat of conspiracy hanging over him rather than contempt, and he genuinely doesn't know if he would. Five years ago, he wouldn't have given a damn about the prospect of years behind bars, but five years ago he didn't have a team he's proud to call his family, a team he would have considered making this kind of sacrifice for even for a second. He meant that when he told her that Neal is family, but he's also more than aware that the family he has now exists only because of Mackenzie, and the irony of finding himself here when she's finally his wife isn't lost on him.

He remembers the call she made to her mother to tell her the big, fairytale wedding was off and that they'd be getting married at City Hall the following day instead. Her mother had upset her, asking if she had considered for even a second that people had made travel plans and bought plane tickets, before moving on to make the assumption that Mackenzie was pregnant and that it was a good old shotgun wedding.

"No, Mum, I'm not pregnant, and you might not want to hold your breath waiting for that to happen anytime soon since Will is about to go to jail!" He had heard her yell from the bedroom. "That's why we're getting married tomorrow, because I love him and I want to marry him and I don't want to wait until God knows when to do it. I'm sorry if that messes up everyone's plans, but my fiancé going to jail is kind of messing up mine too!"

She had hung up at that and had stormed back into the living room where he had made the mistake of asking if she was okay, knowing the instant the question passed his lips that it was the wrong one. Yelling at him, she had told him that she was disappointing her parents yet again, just like last time, but that this time it was his fault too, and that he was a fucking idiot. As she had turned to go back into the bedroom, she'd pointed her finger at him and, raising her voice again, told him he shouldn't even think about following her.

So he hadn't, as much as he'd wanted to, he hadn't followed. He had sat for a few minutes staring at the TV blankly before turning it off and moving to the window, figuring if he was going to be alone for a while then he may as well do something useful and make a start on the damn sills. He had heard her phone ring again a few minutes later and he was pretty sure that was down to Robert McHale insisting his wife call their daughter back and apologise (Mac has many of her mother's traits, stubbornness and a ferocious temper merely the tip of the iceberg, and her father knows it only too well).

Half an hour later she had reappeared, her hand on his arm, her face blotchy and her eyes red as she apologised for yelling at him. They had talked for a while, and she had admitted how much she was struggling with the idea of him in jail, how much it scared her to think he could be gone for months, _years_. He had tried to ease her fears, before eventually just shutting up and taking her to bed. God, he'd give anything to be able to take her to bed now.

She reaches his table and he stands up, leaning across and taking her face in his hands, kissing her, deeply, almost desperately, because every time he kisses her now he does it knowing they're being watched, the familiar warning of "break it up, inmate," inevitable. If he'd known he would end up kissing her only twice a week- once when she arrives, once when she leaves- he'd have said to hell with the 'no kissing at the office' rule she'd insisted on instigating after they got engaged.

"Hi," she says, as she sits down opposite him, the gentle smile on her face not quite reaching her eyes as she tilts her head. "Are you okay?"

God, those are the eyes he misses every day, he misses them gazing at him when she thinks he hasn't noticed, he misses how they crinkle when she laughs, when she _really_ laughs, and he even misses them being rolled at him in frustration. Most of all he misses how she looks at him when they're alone together, when it's late and she slides herself against him and whispers into his ear, giggling breathily as he flips her over, her eyes twinkling brightly in the dim light of their bedroom.

"Am I okay?" he asks, thinking aloud.

"Sorry, stupid question." She shakes her head, smiling at her own words, he thinks. "I just...I-" 

"I'm okay, Mac." He stops her, wishing he could pull her across the table into his lap and just hold her.

"I worry." She shrugs. "About whether you're sleeping, eating, you know..."

"I could ask you the same," he says, noting the hollow of her cheeks, the pale shadows beneath her eyes. She's still beautiful, obviously, but it's clear to him that if anyone isn't eating or sleeping, it's probably her. He knows she absorbs guilt and wears it like a badge of honour, but that makes no sense this time; this was him, this was the cross he chose to bear, just like she made Genoa all hers.

"I'm fine," she says and he smiles because it's exactly the answer he expected. "I'm not sleeping much, no, but short of keeping the drug companies in business I can't do much about that as long as you're in here."

"I know." He nods, because he knows she's not a great sleeper at the best of times, so he can imagine how little she's managing on while he's in here. "Are you eating? You look...like maybe you're not."

"I eat." She shrugs. "I ate breakfast."

"Today, Mac?" He frowns at her because he sees her hands gripping the sides of the table, and he's seen that before too, enough that it unnerves him slightly. "Did you eat breakfast _today_?"

"Yes," she says, casting a glance in the guard's direction before reaching across and squeezing his hand quickly. "I ran to work this morning and I ate when I got there, I promise."

"If you're running to work, honey, make sure you're fucking eating," he says. "Jesus, a stiff breeze could take you down on a regular day, so if you're running to work and not eating properly-"

"Will." She stops him, sighing loudly. "I really don't want to fight with you, especially about something as stupid as this. I don't exactly find myself with much of an appetite, maybe because my husband is in fucking jail, but I'll try, okay? To be better about the eating thing, I mean. I promise, I'll try."

"Alright," he says firmly, wanting her to know he's only saying these things because he's worried. He frequently has to put food down in front of her to remind her to eat at work...God, he hopes someone else is noticing, at least occasionally, that she can go an entire day without eating if nobody reminds her to.

"I have something I need to tell you." She interrupts his thoughts, biting her lip and taking a breath before she continues. "So...I finished the window sills, the sanding, the painting, and I thought maybe I'd start on the doors next, but then I spoke to my dad and he said it makes more sense to do the walls first and then the doors, but I'm not really sure wallpapering is my thing, so-"

"Mackenzie." He stops her, because she's babbling and he knows it's because this is clearly _not_ the news she wants to share with him. "I'm pretty sure this isn't what you wanted to tell me. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy you've discovered a love of decorating, but how about you tell me what it was you actually wanted to say?"

"Yeah, okay." She pauses, looking up at him. "I wasn't sure if I should tell you at all because I don't want you to freak out, but then I kept thinking that we purposely wrote honesty into our wedding vows, and I know nothing's going to happen but I feel like you need to know, in case anything does, and...what?"

"You don't want _me_ to freak out?" He shakes his head, frowning. "You're scaring the shit out of me right now. Just tell me, whatever it is."

"Alright." She sighs. "I should have mentioned it was a possibility last week, but I wasn't sure then so I didn't know if I should say anything and worry you if it actually turned out not to be-"

"Mac." He stops her, a sudden thought turning to faint panic in his mind. "Jesus, you're not...are you _pregnant_? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

"What?" Her eyes widen and she laughs. "No, you idiot, that's _not_ what I'm trying to tell you at all!"

"Okay, sorry, I just thought, fuck..." He stops because he wonders what he _was_ thinking, he'd know if she was pregnant, surely, wouldn't he? Actually, maybe he wouldn't know, he has no idea if husbands are supposed to be able to guess at these things before they're told. Not that there is anything he should have known because she isn't pregnant, so...

"Billy." Her tone is sharp and he realises he zoned out and that it probably isn't the first time she's tried to get his attention.

"Yeah, sorry, I was just-"

"Shitting your pants at the thought of my being pregnant?" She raises an eyebrow and he is aware his reaction was far from ideal. "Don't worry, your panic face is noted should the day ever come when that _is_ what I'm trying to tell you."

"It's not that I wouldn't want, I mean, it isn't like we..." He stops, sighing as he runs a hand through his hair. "I am royally fucking this up, aren't I?"

"It's not going all that well," she says, but there's something in her voice that he recognises as vague amusement so, letting out a relieved breath, he gives her a faint smile as she continues. "Doesn't really matter right now...anyway, I know who Neal's source is too."

"What?" He knows Neal didn't tell her because he swore he wouldn't, he understood completely that under no circumstances did Will want Mackenzie to be in a position where she could be implicated alongside him. "How?"

"I was approached at the Correspondents Dinner, and told that if we didn't run the story then it would be leaked anyway, and...actually, that's not important because the source disappeared again and the story didn't appear." She stops, taking a breath and waiting for his response.

"You think something happened to the source after they talked to you?" he asks, trying to take in that Mackenzie has been sitting on this information and has said nothing.

"I don't know." She admits. "What I do know, and what I came to tell you is that I have had someone make contact with me, someone who says he can lead me to the person who leaked to documents to Neal's source, _directly_ to him. If I can find out from him where he got the documents, and from whom, then we could-"

"No." He stops her, fear bubbling slowly up into his chest, accompanied by the knowledge that when she decides to do something it's almost impossible to change her mind. "No way, Mac. No fucking way. Thirty eight people have already died, you could be walking right into a trap, how do you know this contact isn't totally bogus, or worse, someone working for BCD?"

"I don't know that, not for sure. But this isn't a source that came completely out of the blue, he came via someone I do trust, someone who wouldn't be trying to fuck us over on this, Will. I would never walk into something that I seriously suspected may be a set up, you must know that, but I really don't think this is, and I have to try. I can't just sit at home and wait for the DOJ to decide what they want to do with you, I just...can't. You know as well as I do that once we hit ninety days they have to charge you with something and today is day thirty one, we're running out of time, and I need to..." She stops as his hand grabs hers, and he squeezes her fingers quickly before reluctantly letting go, hoping it was enough to communicate how fucking unnerved he is by what she's suggesting.

"Mac, I know." He's keeping his voice level because he knows this is the kind of conversation they really shouldn't be having here. "I _know_ all of that but you're talking about walking into a meeting with someone who could be a threat, a real 'already complicit in the deaths of almost forty people' threat. So you can see why I'm not exactly fucking thrilled about letting you do that, and-"

"First off." She cuts in, her voice low, controlled but bathed in anger. "Excuse me for wanting to do whatever I have to do to get you out of here, but secondly, I wasn't asking for your permission, so whether you want to _let_ me do this or not isn't really relevant. I'm not an idiot, this is hardly the first time I've met with a source, I'm perfectly capable of handling myself, I'm not about to just get on a plane alone and walk into this. Jesus, Will, give me some fucking credit."

She sits back in her chair and runs one hand across her forehead while the other rests on the table, her fingers tapping anxiously. The problem is that he knows she's right, this is something she has to try because they're running out of options and if roles were reversed there isn't a chance in hell she would be able to stop him from doing whatever it took. He's worried because this isn't some stupid little story, this is serious, this is a story that has been covered up by the DoD and it has worrying shades of Genoa. He thinks of the months they've spent trying to rebuild, of how he has watched her slowly put herself back together after Genoa almost broke her, and this feels horribly like he would be setting her back on that road again; one step forward, ten steps back.

"I'm sorry," he says, waiting for her to look at him before he goes on. "I didn't mean it like that, I just...well, I'm your husband and I'm entitled to fucking worry, okay?"

"Okay," she says, quietly, leaning forward slightly so she can keep her voice low. "I know what you're thinking, that this is bad, really bad, and the last time we landed ourselves in the middle of something like this it just kept getting worse until it exploded in all of our faces. You don't think I've considered that, that here we are again in the middle of another DoD disaster? I've thought about it constantly but this is different, I don't have a choice this time. Last time it was our reputations at stake, and that was bad enough, but this time it's more than that, it's...our whole lives. It's you and me, Billy, it's _everything_."

"Honey." He can barely say a thing because even though it feels like a punch to the chest, she's right. "I know."

He pauses and she looks at him expectantly, as though she's waiting for him to once again try to talk her out of it, like she's ready with a million more reasons why she has to do this if even dares to try. They sit at an impasse for a few long seconds before he sighs and raises his eyebrows, silently asking for more detail.

"I'm on a flight to Moscow tonight," she says calmly, her level tone betrayed only slightly by the way her hands are clasped together so tightly that her knuckles have turned white. "I'll meet my contact, he'll point me to the whistleblower and I'll beat the crap out of him until he talks and we get what we need."

"It's not a tactic I'd completely rule out, but you may want to go in easier at first." He smiles faintly at her words but the smile slips from his face as the full weight of what she's telling him starts to sink in. "Wait, Moscow?"

"Yeah, I know." She nods at him, smiling wryly. "DC would have been easier, but yeah, Moscow."

"Fuck." He breathes, thinking before he says anything else because he knows she's capable of anything, he knows she speaks Russian, knows she's survived more than she ever should have had to, but shit, Moscow. "Tell me you're not going alone? Take Jim, or Don, or call Lonny, he'd go with you in a heartbeat and no one would mess with him-"

"Neal's going with me." She stops him, biting her lip as she looks at him, eyes narrowed slightly.

"Neal?" He repeats, but he's not surprised, he knows Neal would never let her walk into this alone, not when this was his story, his source.

"I think he _needs_ to...," She stops and he says nothing, watching as she swallows hard and clears her throat before she can continue. "He watches me all the time, like I'm about to fall apart, and I think he feels like I blame him for this. I don't, you know I don't, but I think he needs to do this to try and make up for...everything."

"Alright," he says, closing his eyes for a second, opening them again when his mind fills with images he can't deal with, images of this going wrong in the worst of ways, of Mackenzie- no, she'll be fine, she'll do this, it'll work, she will be his saviour, _their_ saviour. That's what she believes anyway and her confidence is essential, it's what will get her through this.

"I'm not going to race into this without thinking." She's misreading the look on his face, he thinks, but he doesn't reply, instead letting her talk. "I'm going to be careful, I promise. I'm doing this for you, for _us_ , and I'm going to make damn sure I get out of there in one piece, and with everything we need. If this goes to plan, Rebecca will have the proof in her hands by the end of the day Monday and this could all be over. I need you to come home, Billy, because this current arrangement? It's not really working for me."

"Funny that." He manages a smile, a smile he hopes is encouraging, that he hopes tells her he doesn't doubt her, he knows she can do this but that he just wishes she didn't have to. "It's not doing a whole lot for me either."

*

In the back of the cab, Neal keeps watching her, although he's trying to be discreet which somehow only ends up making it more obvious. She's clutching a flash drive and Neal has another in his pocket, as well as the laptop in a bag at his feet. Between the two of them, they have what they need, she's sure of it, but she can't relax, she _won't_ relax until they're home and Rebecca has the information in her hands. They checked it last night at the hotel, over and over, and everything is there, names, dates, emails, and she has a note from her contact buried in the bottom of her bag, in Russian, written so cryptically that anyone reading it would take it as a note from a friend wishing her a safe trip home.

They copied everything onto three flash drives, the third one is on its way to New York by post, just in case...Mac lets out a long breath and Neal looks over at her, dropping his pretence of discretion this time.

"We have what we need, Mac," he says quietly. "I'm sure of it."

"I know." She nods, trying to smile at him. "I just...well, you may as well know I'm probably not going to be the easiest travel companion. There's not a chance I'm going to be able to relax until we land back in New York and hand this over to Rebecca."

"I understand that," Neal says, pausing before seemingly deciding he has more to say. "Look, I'm sorry, for-"

"Neal, please." She puts a hand on his arm and both of their gazes land on her ring finger, the now familiar engagement ring sitting with the newly added wedding band. "It's okay, it'll be okay."

"Yeah." He nods, falling silent as he turns to look out the window of the cab.

It's a ten hour flight but Mackenzie arrives completely wired, energised almost at the thought of being so close, and when they breeze through immigration she has to stop herself from throwing her arms around Neal and screaming with pure, undiluted relief. They make it into a cab and she calls Rebecca, who tells her that they should come straight to AWM where she, Charlie and the FBI will be waiting. That's when she realises the end could be in sight, that if this is enough for the FBI, enough for them to hit the whistleblower with espionage, Will could be coming home.

"God, Neal, I never did finish decorating the living room," she says, two blocks from the office, before shaking her head and smiling at her own silly thoughts. "Sorry, it doesn't matter, it was just something I started after Will went...I got it into my head that I needed to get it done, and I didn't. It's okay though, right?"

"Mac." Neal smiles at her, shaking his head slightly. "If I know Will, he's going to want to come back and get it finished with you. I'm damn sure he's not sitting there now thinking, 'Shit, I hope Mac got that fucking living room done'."

"No." She laughs and she realises she hasn't laughed in weeks. It feels good. Slightly foreign to her, but good. "I'm sure he isn't."

"We're here," Neal reaches for the laptop on the floor between his feet. "Let's do this."

*

He's been home for six weeks when she walks into the kitchen one Saturday morning, watching him for a minute before alerting him to her presence. She still wakes up each morning and breathes a sigh of relief when she sees him lying next to her, still finds herself completely unable to stop her hands from reaching for him, craving the feel of his skin under hers before she is able to get up and start the day. She wonders if that will stop once the realisation that he isn't going anywhere wears off, or if having him here by her side as her _husband_ will always do this to her. She hopes it's the latter.

"Will." She walks over to him and slides her arms around him, biting her lip as she looks up into the blue eyes she's loved since the day she met him. "You should probably get your game face on...I have something I need to tell you."

This time, he smiles.


End file.
